


And You Know I Wouldn't Lie

by waywardrenegade



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Feelings, M/M, Minor Violence, jonny's real tired of your shit kaner, needs more burs, seabs is my spirit animal, this was supposed to be fluffy so how did this happen?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 17:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a rare occasion where Jonny manages a string of words that doesn’t sound like a pre-game speech or contain points for improvement during the game; no, it’s pure frankness that tears Patrick apart from the inside out and makes him want to cower.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You Know I Wouldn't Lie

Patrick’s been out with Crow, Shawzy, Boller, Carbomb, Leddy, Stally, Hjammer, and Fro since the rally ended, drinking and taking turns dancing with the numerous girls flocked around them. After almost a week of this though, the overall appeal’s worn off a bit, and the fatigue is weighing heavily on all of them. Well, minus Shawzy because that kid seems to be immune to anything that might curb his energy even the slightest, but still.

The more he drinks, the more Patrick wonders how he let Corey show him up at their victory parade. Really, “ _fucking worked their nuts off for this trophy_ ”? Why hadn’t he thought of that, sloshed or not? Fuck Crow, for real. He is all evasive and moody, _Mister I-Never-Look-Directly-At-The-Camera-Because-I’m-A-Badass-Goaltender_ the entire playoffs, and then he picks the damn victory rally to show up bombed and steal the show. Seriously, it’s Patrick they were all worried about, who got countless “‘Don’t pull a repeat of 2010, Peeks’” lectures from Sharpy, and it’s Patrick who now feels dejected.

Patrick hadn’t thought of it though, so instead he’s been steadily knocking back beers, shots, and whatever else the bartender keeps placing in front of him in an effort to make up for lost time. He’s to the point where he isn’t entirely sure what kind of booze he’s actually drinking or how much he’s had, but he’s damned if he cares. If people want to keep buying him alcohol since he’s the “hero of the Chicago Blackhawks”, wouldn’t it be rude to refuse their generosity?

Crow could easily outdrink him given his sheer size advantage alone; honestly, Corey’s built like a fucking tank, but Patrick’s gotten extraordinarily good at holding his own over the years. Though, if his memorable speech is anything to go by, maybe Crow’s famed Canadian tolerance really isn’t so invincible after all. It’s that thought that keeps guiding Patrick’s hand toward each new bottle that appears.

Jonny’s at Sharpy’s with the some of the more mellow guys and Saader, bluffing his way through a shitty hand of cards and scarfing down the nachos Abby made at Seabs' request. He’s decided to stick with the _slightly_ more subdued group tonight since it’s been a long week of partying and very little sleep.

They trade ridiculous insults, aiming quite a few at Saader since he has to sit out the club scene for a while longer and stoop to hang out with the “old guys”. Brooksy alternates clapping them all on the back in turn and repeating the same praise he’s been spewing for a few days now. Duncs is beating them all unmercifully at yet another game of Texas Hold ‘Em without saying much.

It’s become a routine they slip into thoughtlessly when they pull off incredible wins. The camaraderie between them is incredibly tangible and goes a long way toward explaining their cohesiveness on ice.

Jonny’s able to relax for the first time in months, and it feels fantastic to be surrounded by friends, doing something normal, and relatively sober. No one says anything when Saad tips back a Heineken or when Seabs doesn’t realize he’s got a glob of cheese sauce drying in his beard because that’s just how it is with them.

Abby finally kicks them out at midnight because they’ve crossed the line between “having a good time” and “getting rowdy enough to wake Maddy”, which is never good. Sharpy tries to make a grandiose speech about how he’s an excellent host and loves them all, but Jonny’s too preoccupied helping Duncs and Oduya wrestle a babbling Bicks and Razor into the back of Seabs' SUV to pay his drunken ass much mind. He follows them for a few blocks, not envying Seabs and Duncs at all, before turning toward his condo with a quick honk goodbye.

Somehow it’s a few hours later at Rockit, and the others have departed, leaving Patrick and Corey to fend for themselves. Patrick’s head feels like a fish bowl precariously balanced on his shoulders, and, for reasons far beyond him, he’s holding Crow’s giant hand while stumbling toward the cab he’d hailed. 

Patrick’s feet don’t want to cooperate, tripping him up, so that he knocks into Crow roughly. Corey just gives him a boozy smile before pushing him into the car, managing to whack his head, while mumbling something to the cabbie. Patrick spares a thought to the irony of riding in a shitty Chicago cab that smells like vomit and piss when they’ve just won the Stanley _Fuckin’_ Cup before he slouches against Crow’s warm body.

Patrick didn’t even realize he’d nodded off until Corey’s prodding him between the ribs with a finger that feels like a knife and telling him to “ _get your sorry self inside, okay Kaner_.”

Corey's voice is a low garble of syllables, and it’s the funniest damn thing Patrick’s ever heard. He’s still laughing the raucous laugh of an over served hockey player as he beats heavily on the door of Jonny’s condo. Patrick’s so far gone that he doesn’t comprehend that Crow gave the cabbie Jonny’s address rather than his own for a few seconds. When he does though, he lets loose entirely.

“Open up, big guy. Kaner’s in the buildingggggggggggg!” he hoots obnoxiously as he waits what feels likes a billion years for Jonny Freakin’ Toes to let him inside. Yeah, Jonny hates the name, but once Sharpy convinced the guys just how amusing it really was, he had to learn to deal with it.

Patrick starts impatiently kicking at the bottom of the door in a quick staccato, scuffing the tips of his dress shoes. He wonders if maybe Jonny isn’t home, but Jonny’s never once left him hanging.

When Jonny answers the door a few minutes later, he’s wearing black boxer briefs and a bitchface, hair sticking up in wild spikes on one side, plastered flat on the other. Obviously, Jonny had been sleeping like the lame ass he is when the media’s not in his face. He doesn’t say anything, but then again, Jonny really doesn’t have to. They’ve been here before.

“Oh, put your judgy eyes away, Tazer. I know, I know, okay,” Patrick slurs as an opening to the inevitable argument that’s about to unfold.

“Kaner, there’s nothing to say. Really,” Jonny says somberly, his usual fighting posture absent. Instead, he looks defeated, as if nothing he’s ever said has mattered. He thinks that maybe it hasn’t.

Patrick starts to mutter a half-assed apology as soon as his brain finally catches up, but by then Jonny’s already in his room tugging on worn sweatpants and a wrinkled Blackhawks shirt. His eyes don’t meet Patrick’s as he edges around him like Patrick’s got a contagious disease he might contract, and he slips on the pair of Nikes and faded ball cap he keeps in the front closet.

Jonny walks out without another word, and it has a sense of finality to it that sobers Patrick pretty quickly. It’s not at all like Jonny to let something go that easily, so Patrick knows he’s in deep shit.

The door stays open for a moment, like it too is waiting for Jonny to change his mind and turn back, before it swings shut with an ominous thud that echoes through the living room. Patrick shivers involuntarily.

Jonny keeps walking, putting one foot in front of the other, until the sun starts to play peekaboo with the moon and birds begin to chirp. He can’t keep on with Patrick, with things the way they’ve been since almost day one. Jonny’s always the one Patrick calls to pick him up from the bar when he’s had too much to drink or whose doorstep he shows up at 3 am, but, in most cases, it’s both. It’s all gotten to be too much for him.

He figures that by the time he stops at Starbucks to have breakfast, because screw it he’s not dieting after winning the Cup, by some miracle, Patrick will be gone. Maybe he won’t have to see the face of someone he knows well, yet doesn’t at all sometimes, who it seems is constantly in a liquored up stupor whenever he’s off the ice. Of course things never work out the way Jonny figures because Patrick’s sitting at the island in his kitchen when he gets home, head resting on his forearms and a bottle of Gatorade next to him as if he’d been frozen there the whole time.

Not in a mood to mince words, Jonny just holds up his hands in a noncommittal way as he moves past Patrick. The simple gesture is effective in shutting him up, but it still doesn’t stop Patrick from inhaling the faint trail of Jonny’s familiar cologne as he passes. He lingers at the counter a moment longer, and then quietly pads toward Jonny’s bedroom.

Jonny’s lying stretched out on his stomach, both arms tucked under his pillow tightly, while his feet dangle off the bottom. He’s clearly and effectively projecting, “ _Go the hell away_ ”.

“Hey, look at me. Please,” Patrick says gently as he sinks onto the corner of the bed, carefully placing his hand on Jonny’s shoulder. He doesn’t think it’ll work, is damn sure it won’t, until it does.

Jonny’s slowly turning over to face him; the look in his eyes say a simple “ _I’m sorry_ ” isn’t going to fix the situation one bit. It’s a betrayed, haunted expression that makes Patrick feel downright shitty for lying yet again.

Now that he’s got Jonny’s attention, Patrick forgets what he’s supposed to do. His fingers flex in the tangle of crimson sheets nervously, and it seems to weaken Jonny’s resolve a fraction, if his deep sigh is any indication. Sometimes with Jonny, it’s what he doesn’t say aloud that Patrick hears the loudest.

Taking a steadying breath, Patrick spills, “Look, I’ve let you down again. I’m sorry. That’s what you want, I think, an apology. And for me to, ya know, learn my lesson, right”?

He watches Jonny’s body language shift subtly toward a wary uncertainty, as only someone who really knows him would notice, before Jonny says evenly, “Pat, that’s part of it, the sincerity you so obviously lack in every promise you make me. More so though, I want you to be better. For youself. For the team. And, a bit selfishly, for me”.

Patrick’s reply sticks in the back of his throat, refuses to fall from his lips. He’s never been particularly adept at accepting brutal honesty, and from Jonny, it’s always so much worse. It cuts deeper and more viciously. He’s left with his mouth open stupidly, Jonny’s dissatisfied expression mocking him silently, so he does what his Kaner persona does best and tries to make a joke out of everything.

“I attempted to outdrink Crow and lost. Huh, imagine that, our goalie actually getting hammered and letting two F-bombs go on live national tv. I am so proud of our little baby boy, grown up so fast,” Patrick rambles, he believes, somewhat comically.

He realizes about 3 seconds after the words have tumbled out that it was the most idiotic route he could’ve possibly chosen. Jonny looks like he’s mere seconds from punching him in the mouth and would rather enjoy it at this point. Patrick probably wouldn’t blame him, either. Instead of coming to blows though, Jonny levels him with his words. He’s always been skilled at it.

“You know what, Pat, just fuck you. I’ve tried and tried and tried to help you. I get that you didn’t have a lot of friends growing up what with hockey 24/7 and all, and trust me, _that_ I do understand, but what I don’t get is why you fail to see you’re better than them. You’re a star already, Pat, they’re never gonna forget you, but you’re not their toy, not just around for their entertainment. It’s like you have no self-esteem and will do just about anything to make people like you, and it’s such _bullshit_. It just is because you deserve so much better, okay,” Jonny lets loose without pausing for breath, like if he pauses the impact won’t wound as much.

It’s a rare occasion where Jonny manages a string of words that doesn’t sound like a pre-game speech or contain points for improvement during the game; no, it’s pure frankness that tears Patrick apart from the inside out and makes him want to cower.

Jonny’s face is littered with angry red splotches and his hands are balled into fists that he keeps drilling into the mattress, but though his body gives him away, his voice never once strays from the strict “Captain Serious” voice that Patrick _fucking_ loathes.

Patrick’s suddenly livid, a red haze drifting around the corners of his vision, and a tremor overtaking his limbs. It’s this fury that causes him to get up and shove Jonny in the chest, hard. He isn’t sure why he does it or really that he even means it; it feels like an out of body experience because Patrick doesn’t pick physical fights with Jonny. He just doesn’t do it.

Caught off guard, Jonny doesn’t have time to react before he’s crashing onto the floor and bringing his bedside lamp down with him. It shatters noisily, glass spraying in a multitude of directions, almost concealing Jonny’s lowly muttered “ _Ow, fuck_ ”.

It takes him a few seconds to respond, which Patrick equates to absolute shock and maybe a little luck, but when Jonny finally stands, his mouth is set in an angry scowl, while something dark flashes in his eyes. There’s a nasty gash on his wrist, steadily dripping blood onto the wood floor that makes Patrick feel sick.

Patrick only manages a half step back before Jonny is on him, pummeling every inch of flesh his scrawny arms don’t cover. Jonny’s letting out angry growls and snarls that seem to reverberate off the long glass windows of the master bedroom. He sounds half crazed with an impressive rage that would rival the Incredible Hulk, like he’s been burying years’ worth of frustration and only now relaxing a death-grip on the tight reins of his self-discipline.

Patrick’s never seen Jonny like this, out of control and entirely willing to fight, and quite frankly, it’s almost with awe that he lets Jonny beat the hell out of him. He allows Jonny to land a few more solid blows before he rolls out from underneath him in a sneaky move he figured out from years of stupidly wrestling Buff. Patrick asks calmly, “Feel better?” as he licks blood from his split lip and straightens his polo and rumpled jeans.

“Yeah, I honestly think I do,” Jonny manages through his panting as he slowly stands. There are tiny beads of sweat forming at his temples so the dark hair there curls against his stubbled cheek.

Patrick can see he’s trembling slightly, from the massive adrenaline rush, he supposes. He knows he deserves what he was dealt, wouldn’t be surprised if Jonny feels like taking a few more swings, so Patrick doesn’t anticipate the bone crushing hug he finds himself wrapped in.

“You’re so fucking _dense_ sometimes, Pat,” is Jonny’s offered explanation as he ruffles Patrick’s mullet almost affectionately. To say that he’s completely lost would be the understatement of the damn century.

Patrick, hungover and morning dumb, mumbles, “That stuff you said, is that my friend talking or my captain? And yeah, before you ask, there _is_ a difference. My friend is the guy I know is there for me, whenever I need him. My captain is the one who’ll be there but give me a load of shit for it and loves to tear me a new one on the bench.”

Being the dick that he is, Jonny actually looks like he’s contemplating that for a minute before he responds, “It’s both guys. They both care about you, about the team. I guess what I mean is, Pat, I can’t sit back anymore and watch you destroy yourself. I’m not a saint and don’t pretend to be, like the drunken crowd surfing debacle, but you take it too far. Always have, Kaner. You’re so full of life and potential, and it sucks ass to see you throw that all away, you know.”

To Patrick’s ears, it sounds like a confession of sorts, and he only now realizes that Jonny’s still hugging him tightly, hasn’t let him go, as he’s said this. Jonny’s as genuine as they come, which has got to be some weird Canadian thing since Seabs and Duncs share that quality too, and it’s _him_ that needs to be honest here.

He starts by extricating himself from Jonny’s arms and taking a step back, distancing himself as always when feelings are involved. Patrick casually swipes his tongue across his bottom lip to catch the stray drops of drying blood and notices Jonny regarding him intently.

“I think my problem is you, Jonny. I try so hard to impress you, but you only ever notice when it’s on the ice and I’m scoring goals. When I come to your place, drunk off my ass, it’s because I know you’re there. You’ve always got my back, but lately, you get so pissed at me and leave. Jonny, I never know if you’re coming back. I thought for sure you weren’t this time, that I’d pushed you too far away, broken too many promises.”

For once, it seems Jonny’s at a loss for words; Patrick’s talking emotional weaknesses and acknowledging that he actually has them and _holy shit_. It’s all Jonny can do not to push Patrick straight through the wall with how fiercely he shoves him into it as he kisses him forcefully.

It turns out Patrick kisses like he plays hockey, a little showy, but with unmistakable talent. It becomes an all-out battle of wills as they both make a claim for the lead and neither has any intention of backing down. It’s a game 7 scenario, tied, and about to head into overtime unless someone pulls ahead, but no one has the clear advantage. It’s a struggle full of beard burn and teeth.

Jonny’s finally doing what he’s waited so very long to do when “I’m Too Sexy” starts blaring from the kitchen, and he can’t help letting out a frustrated, “ _Are you shitting me?_ ” because it’s Patrick’s phone, and Sharpy’s calling, presumably to check on him. Sharpy’s probably the biggest cockblock known to mankind, and Jonny kind of hates him right now.

Patrick moves sluggishly toward the kitchen, head spinning and legs a bit wobbly from more than just the remaining tequila buzz, while Jonny tries to regain control of his breathing as he listens to the one-sided conversation.

“Hey man. Yeah, I got to Jonny’s okay. I think Crow helped, not too clear on the details,” Patrick laughs a little too loudly. He’s pacing a track into the tile around the counter and making wild hand gestures, if Jonny knows him at all. Meanwhile, Jonny’s well on his way to freaking out because if anyone can guess why Patrick sounds slightly manic and edgy, it’s going to be Sharpy of course.

He covers his head with the pillow in an attempt to drown out the rest of the call and is soon joined by a relieved looking Patrick who flops down beside him with a grunt. He wordlessly presses a damp paper towel to Jonny’s wrist before carefully placing his lips to the cut that’s already closing.

They lie there and lazily pick back up kissing, but with a lot less struggle and little more closeness. Their legs intertwine, as do their fingers, in a manner that’s still just a fraction cautious. It’s one of those things that just feels _right_ in the world.

Pulling back after a few protracted minutes, Jonny, being the professional moment ruiner that he is, asks softly, “Okay, if Sharpy’s ringtone is ‘I’m Too Sexy’, do I dare ask what mine is?”

Patrick winks and licks his lips obscenely before responding,“‘Baby Got Back’.”

Neither realizes Patrick forgot to hang up his phone because it’s Patrick and it’s just a thing that he does…a lot. It’s not until Sharpy’s yelling, “Bolly, Shawzy, Manchild, Duncs, Seabs, Krugs, everyone, I fuckin’ told you. Our precious Toes and Peeks are together at long last. Oh my god, I gotta call Burs! We called this shit yearsssss ago,” from the pocket of his pants that they begin to fathom just what awaits them next time they see the rest of their team.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from “Do What You Like” by Passenger because that song makes me think of these idiots. Seriously, listen to it from Jonny's POV one day. Also, a big thank you to for-shits-and-hiddles on Tumblr for the quick beta!


End file.
